The wind howled through the mountain passes, biting through even the thickest layers of fur and leather, but Zarius didn't feel the chill. He was burning from the inside out, driven by an anger he wasn't even trying to tame.
Beside him, Elios and a dozen elite riders were little more than blurring shadows against the moonlight. The steady thunder of hooves against frozen earth was the only rhythm Zarius paid attention to. He wasn't watching the road ahead. His eyes were on the slush instead, following the deep, uneven wheel tracks that had no business being this high up the mountain.
They'd found the cart a mile back, abandoned near a bend in the pass.
The tracks had been deep at first, pressed hard into the ground. Then they changed, shallower, closer together. They'd switched to something smaller.
"The tracks are fresh, My Lord!" Elios shouted over the gale, his breath a plume of white steam. "They're slowing down. The grade is too steep for a wagon with that kind of load."
